Tom, Interrupted
by Askilyn
Summary: Alex was in America, living the life of normalcy he had always wanted, and Tom was alone. Except, he wasn't. "I'll throw you out of the car, kid." - "I think we both know that's a lie, marshmallow." GuardianFic. Tom-centric. Papa!Wolf. Tom!Ward.


**A/N: **Hello there. I really have no idea what to say here, so I will be quick. This is basically a Guardianship fic, but Tom-centric. It will feature a lot of familiar characters. I know this chapter raises a lot of unanswered questions, but I will answer them further on. I don't want to give too much away... so I won't. I will just say that Lewis is probably who you think he is, and leave it at that. Feedback is much loved, especially since this is my first time at writing something so monstrously huge.

Oh, and a quick shout out to Crowlows19, who I think was the first and maybe only author in the Alex Rider fandom to write a Tom!GuardianFic. I think she has written two. I encourage everyone who has not already read them to do so, because they are brilliant.

Anyway, that's it. Thank you, and please enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** Alex Rider does not belong to me

**Warnings: **Sexual references. Some swearing.

**Summary:** Alex was in America, living the life of normalcy he had always wanted, and Tom was alone. Except, he wasn't. "I'll throw you out of the car, kid." - "I think we both know that's a lie, marshmallow." GuardianFic. Tom-centric. Papa!Wolf. Tom!Ward.

* * *

><p>Tom, Interrupted<br>Chapter One

* * *

><p>If someone had asked Tom where he would be in three years, this was not it.<p>

He would have said something along the lines of girls, football, and hanging with his mates. In more detail, 'girls' meant maybe just the one – a nice, special girl that wanted to spend more than a couple of days in a relationship with him. By 'football', he meant hard training and keeping up his grades to stay on the team and have a shot at playing big league footy when he reached university. And by 'hanging with his mates', he specifically meant Alex, who had been his best friend for nearly all of his life, and probably always would be.

It was three years since fourteen-year-old Tom had sat in front of his guidance counsellor with those same words tumbling out of his mouth, and the only thing he reminisced about was the fact that none of it had come true.

There was no girl that he could late night text, kiss, or hold hands with. Of course, there had been some, but that was a while ago, when he'd been burning through the ranks of the school football team and had a plethora of mates because of it.

But football had fallen off the agenda thirteen months after Tom's cheerful prediction, coinciding with the finalised divorce of his parents. It had been a tough time of year, and emotional strain saw him doing worse in his classes regardless of how hard he tried. One failed maths test was enough to put him under the acceptable level. He had always struggled with the subject. The coach had been beyond upset with it all, but rules were rules, and Tom was out.

He never quite recovered from that. Football was his future, his scholarship, his means of going further with his life.

And it was gone.

His friends began to dwindle, superficial as they were, no longer attracted to the Brookland boy with nothing but a broken home and broken dreams. But that was all right, because Tom was an upbeat kid by nature, and he still had Alex. His best mate wasn't perfect, was hardly even there, and was the source of the harshest criticism Tom copped at school. But Alex was Alex. They were closer than brothers, always talking, laughing, and having fun. It took a while, but Alex would eventually show up, no matter what. He always did, until the day that he didn't.

Off to America with the Pleasures. Even their names sounded nice. Alex was going to live a normal life, and Tom would be the first to admit that Alex had earned it. For doing all the stuff he'd told Tom, and all stuff he hadn't told him, Alex deserved more than he was being given, though he would never ask for it. But he was content with what he had – normality, that pretty Sabina girl he'd always fancied, a happy family, and a school that accepted him.

Kind of what Tom had wanted.

Okay, so maybe he was a little bitter.

It wasn't that Tom wasn't happy for his friend, because Alex meant a lot to him and therefore Alex's happiness meant a lot, too. But now Alex was gone, simple as that. Alex was gone and Tom was still there, and the fact that Tom hadn't been enough to keep Alex there, too, sort of stung. His best mate got to live in America, got to move toward a good future, and Tom was stuck living in a sad cul-de-sac off Bridgewater Road. With nothing.

Total. Suckage.

His job didn't make it any better, either. It was a nightshift gig, ten to three, followed by a twenty minute ride on his bike; because nobody would teach him how to drive and financing lessons took too much out of his weekly pay cheque. He was a casual at the local McDonald's, though if somebody asked, his occupation was likely to change.

Usually he worked the counters, sometimes the kitchens, but tonight, Shelley had rostered him on to the drive through. He was the middle man, collecting cash and delivering receipts before sending the customer on their way. It was the absolute worst job available, aside from cleaning the bathrooms, because for five straight hours, he sat in front of an open window with nothing but his short-sleeved uniform to keep him warm. If he had been at the window further down, serving food, he would at least have had the heat of the kitchens to work with.

It was times like this that he really hated Shelley. This job, too. But mostly Shelley – the cow had had it out for him since he'd started a month or so back, and as she was his superior, there wasn't a bloody thing he could do about it.

Teeth chattering, Tom slumped back into his cold, plastic chair and blew on his hands, eyes trained on the CCTV. Streetlamps illuminated the road leading in to the drive through, so he couldn't make out a car by the glare of its headlights, having to wait until it pulled in to the entrance to know there was a potential customer. Right now, everything seemed quiet outside, and after another few bone-aching minutes of cold, Tom decided to close the sliding window. As he was climbing onto his feet, though, he caught a flicker of movement on the edge of his vision.

Somebody had just pulled up outside, and was rolling down their window to tell the remote speaker what they wanted.

Tom activated his headset with a sigh. "Welcome to McDonald's. How may I help you?"

* * *

><p>"Seventeen pounds," he said, not bothering to look up from the screen as he reached out expectantly. "And fifty-two pence. Would you like to pay cash or credit?"<p>

"Cash," was the grunted reply, quickly followed by the sound of him shifting to dig in his pockets. More noises drifted from the car as the man started rooting around for spare change, checking his glove box, various compartments and drink holders before leaning into the backseat. Tom waited patiently, fingers drumming on the register.

"Shit." Came the eventual curse, and Tom inwardly sighed, knowing what was coming next. "I've only got a tenner on me."

"Alright," Tom began, preparing to launch into a company delegated spiel about what this unfortunate man should do. Before he got very far, though, another car pulled into the drive through. "Ah, if you could just hold on a minute, sir, I've landed another customer." His enthusiasm was completely undermined by the incredibly unenthusiastic look on his face.

There was a snort. "No worries, kid. I'll keep looking."

Tom nodded and then stopped paying attention to the guy in front of him as he politely took the new customer's order. "Welcome to McDonald's. How may I help you?... Would you like fries and coke with that?... Yes, ma'am, upsizing is an extra pound fifty… No, ma'am, I'm afraid we don't offer that special here… Yes ma'am, I agree that the advert is misleading… No ma'am, I cannot offer you anything to appease the injustice of it all… Sorry, ma'am. I did not mean to sound insolent… Yes, ma'am. You may certainly speak with my manager."

Silence pervaded through his comm., suddenly punctuated by horns blaring in the distance. Tom raised an eyebrow as CCTV showed the woman angrily reversing out of the drive through, slamming on the brakes, and then accelerating dangerously fast into the parking lot. "There's one for the books," he told nobody in particular.

"That's going to bite you in the arse, mate." His wonderfully sane-by-comparison customer announced from the opposite side of the window.

"As long as it isn't her doing the biting, I think I'll be alright."

"You'd best hope," was the reply. Tom finally glanced up from his work station, encouraged by the amusement in the man's tone.

He blinked.

Definitely a soldier, Tom decided. The man was built short and stocky, his body clad in a set of rumpled army fatigues that were splashed here and there with mud. Some of the material was still wet, and probably chafing uncomfortably, though Tom would never be able to tell from the neutral expression 'Capt. Guerrero' wore on his dark features.

"I think they have shots for that kind of thing." He retorted good naturedly, still eyeing the beret sitting atop the man's messy, black hair with a sense of wonder. His uncle was in the military. He liked his uncle. "Tetanus. Or was it Rabies? I forget."

"Rabies," the man confirmed, the grim line that was his mouth twitching in smile. Tom saw the illusive mark of dimples.

"Aren't those the really big needles?" He asked, flicking his gaze back to the monitor. Nobody else had pulled in. "I remember seeing them in Body of Lies. DiCaprio made it look painful." He paused, frowning. "But movies exaggerate stuff like that, right? They're not _actually _that big…" Guerrero outright grinned. Tom paled. "Are they?"

"Oh, lad," Guerrero said, steel-grey eyes alight with humour. "Let's pray she doesn't take a nibble, eh?"

"Why?"

"I doubt you'll last."

"Oi," Tom growled, not impressed with the implication that he didn't have the stones to be gnawed on by 200 pounds of angry woman and then speared with the biggest bloody needle he had ever – okay, maybe he didn't have the stones. But that didn't mean this guy could go around _saying_ that. "_Never_ underestimate the size of my cojones, _comprende_?"

Tom had a reputation to uphold.

"_Comprende_?" Guerrero repeated, questioning. "Are you taking the piss out of my nationality? Because if you are, I'm going to belt you, kid."

The easy-going edge in Guerrero's voice was replaced by a deep, growling undertone that promised a variety of new and painful experiences if the answer given wasn't the correct one. Horrified, Tom stared out at him with a deer-caught-in-headlights look.

"I-I… wha?" Tom floundered, limbs flailing in a disjointed motion that was meant to be placating. "N-no, I didn't m-mean anything b-by…"

He was cut off by a noise that sounded suspiciously like…

"Hey!" Tom barked, flustered. "That isn't funny! Stop laughing!"

Guerrero tried. He clamped his mouth shut, but then it just came whistling out of his nose in a chorus of snorts and wheezes that did little to mollify the irate Tom.

"Prick," he grumbled, arms crossed over his chest. He was the picture of indignant. "That was mean."

"I'm sorry, pumpkin." Recovering, Guerrero got a hold of his mirth and pinned Tom with a look of false sincerity. "Princess," he added for good measure, just in case Tom had missed the mockery. "I should have offered to help."

"Help me what?" Tom asked.

"Look," the soldier said, and then clarified what it was they were supposedly looking for when Tom just stared at him, confused. "For your cojones, kid."

There was more laughter. Tom ground his teeth.

Before he could try and salvage the decrepit remnants of his pride, there was a knock on the door that led into his tiny work space. Tom jumped about a foot in the air and turned, calling for whoever it was to come in, unless they had a shotgun and were planning on robbing and/or killing him. Outside, Guerrero instantly fell silent.

Andrea Carthwright. She was one of Tom's favourite co-workers, and his eyes immediately glazed over as her bountiful chest came bouncing through the door seconds before she did. Oh, what he would give to see through the stiff, mass-produced uniform they were all forced to wear. It did her such an injustice, he thought.

"Tom," Andrea said, sugary smile sparkling with cheap lip gloss. She didn't seem particularly upset about where he was staring. He had only ever looked her in the eye once or twice, when she had been sitting down and he'd misjudged the height difference when he'd turned to speak to her. "Shelley says that you need to hurry up here. His food is getting cold," she nodded to Guerrero, who was looking in with a neutral expression. "And she doesn't want to redo it."

She paused. Tom began to look hopeful.

"Is that it?"

"No," Andrea answered, sympathetic. "She also said to make sure this customer feels special, because he will probably be your last."

"What?" Tom yelped, now completely focused on Andrea's face, which was smooth and blemish free. Even through his shock, he wanted to reach out and stroke it. "I didn't even _do_anything! They can't fire me for that!"

Andrea shrugged. "Shelley said that it isn't necessarily about how you conducted yourself this time. You've apparently had a lot of complaints lately, and she can't employ somebody who pisses off his customers more often than he makes them happy."

"Andrea!" Tom wailed, because he really couldn't think of anything else to say. This job was kind of all he had going for him at the moment.

"Sorry, Tom," she said, expression woefully sad. He wanted to make her feel better, but couldn't because he was feeling even worse. She petted him on the cheek with one silky, manicured hand, and then left the way she had come.

Tom was mesmerised by the sway of her hips, head tilting slightly to get a better view.

Then, the door closed.

It was the noise that jolted him back to reality. He turned back to the service window, disheartened, and noticed the scowl twisting his 'last' customer's features. For one stomach churning moment, he thought it was directed at him, but then realised it was actually directed at the door Andrea had left through. Somehow, that didn't make him feel much better.

"Who is Shelley?" The way the question was articulated demanded an answer.

"Manager," Tom replied with a sigh, starting to tap the keys on the cash register. "She has had it out for me since day one. I guess she finally got enough ammunition to tip the scales in her favour. There are only so many complaints an employee can get before they get the boot, and I'm not really that popular around here."

Guerrero grunted.

The small, illuminated screen on the cash register suddenly flickered, the green numbers changing from £17.52 to £00.00 in the blink of an eye. Tom caught the money tray as it rolled out with a successful _ding_, gazing wistfully at the stacked notes and piled coins before pushing the tray back into the machine with a resounding _click_.

"There," he announced, waiting for the receipt to print before tearing it off and handing it out to the soldier. "You've payed. Go get your food. I've upsized it so they have to do it again, anyway. And you're getting coffee now, instead of coke."

"That's illegal, kid." Guerrero said, berating. He didn't accept the slip of paper.

"Yeah," Tom agreed. "But you heard what Andrea said, right? Shelley wants my last customer to feel special, so technically we have her blessing." Apparently he had underestimated how rigid military personnel were when it came to following the rules, because Guerrero simply looked at him disapprovingly. "Oh, come on. It's _fine_."

"It's aiding and abetting, is what it is."

"Well, well," Tom grouched, feeling unduly unappreciated. "Brains _and_brawns, are we? I didn't know those two qualities coexisted in the army."

Guerrero's almond shaped eyes narrowed into slits, though it took him a fair while to decide if he was going to be offended by such a remark. "I'm starting to see where all these complaints have been coming from, brat."

"Whatever." Tom flapped a hand dismissively. "Look, can you just take it, please? You look like you could use it, and anyway, this isn't even about you. It's about me. Shelley will have one helluva headache trying to figure out where the money went…"

The soldier glared, accentuating frown lines that had clearly seen a lifetime of use. "You're not exactly pleading your case, kid."

"I'm not?"

"She'll know it was you. And these cameras show it was me. It might be a small thing, but I don't need any black marks on my record."

"You're worried about the cameras?"

"They've got my face and plates. That's all they need."

"Right," Tom said briskly, spinning on his heels. He crossed over to the CCTV station that monitored the entrance to the drive through, and stabbed the eject button with his finger. The VCR spat out the tape, and he switched off the monitor before stalking back to the window. He stood at the window frame, held up the tape, and started tearing out metre after metre of film. "There, you big baby. Now take the receipt, get your shit, and maybe if you're lucky, I'll help you look for your cojones later."

Slightly widened eyes were the only sign of his shock. The biting remark was annoyingly disregarded. "Destroying evidence is a felony. You're just digging yourself in deeper."

"I wouldn't have had to commit this felony if you'd just committed the other one with me!" Tom snapped.

"That doesn't make sense."

"Yes, it does."

"All right, it does. But it's stupid."

"Oh for the love of – _would you_ _just fucking take it already_? I'm about to get fired, mate. Help me out here, please?"

Maybe it was the doe-eyes, or maybe the man was just really, really hungry. Or maybe, like most people, he only did it to make Tom shut up. But in the end, he reached out and plucked the slip of paper from Tom's hand. He didn't need it, but taking it solidified the unspoken promise that he would, against his better judgement, skirt the law this one time.

Guerrero's mother would be rolling in her grave. On the other hand, his father would be incredibly proud of him.

Too bad he'd hated his father.

"She'll still know it was you," he told the short, spiky haired teenager as he forced a heavy-handed gear change that made the gearbox crunch. Driving an old Ford was inherently more difficult than driving a military Humvee, especially when he used the latter twice as much as the former.

"Doesn't matter," Tom responded, shoulders hunched in a bird shrug. One lifted higher than the other. "It's not like I have an address for her to send the police."

Guerrero was completely floored by that piece of intimate information, so casually delivered. So much so that he didn't have time to respond as the boy slid the sliding window shut, wishing a cheerful: "Goodnight."

"Yeah," Guerrero said, turning away from the now empty service desk. "Goodnight."

He accelerated down the drive slowly.

* * *

><p>Shelley was waiting for him out on the floor.<p>

That essentially meant that she was standing out in the middle of the restaurant, sweeping between two four-seater tables that were already impeccably clean. Most of the staff were nearby, either cleaning or working the counters. As there wasn't a customer in sight, almost everybody was watching the show over their various tasks of wiping down benches and refilling the straw containers.

Tom tuned them out as he walked by.

"Shelley."

The broom paused mid-sweep. Without the repetitive swishing of bristles scraping across tiles, it fell strangely quiet. A sort of calm before the storm, Tom supposed. He hefted his duffel bag onto a nearby table when it became clear that Shelley wasn't about to start talking, choosing instead to try and psych him out with her silence and half-lidded stare.

That stare was creepy. Shelley wore an almost luminescent eye shadow, coloured a hideous bright green, which trapped his attention. When he finally managed to tear his gaze away, it was almost a shock to see her beady black eyes staring out at him. Tom tried to ignore it for the most part, unbuttoning the top half of his uniform and taking it off. He wore a white, thin singlet underneath that did nothing to ward off the winter chill, but it was replaced by comfortable warmth as he pulled on the cotton hoodie he'd stuffed in his bag on the way to work.

"That is highly unsanitary, changing near the eating area," Shelley eventually snapped, hands white-knuckled on the broom handle. Tom was mildly surprised. He thought she would have been less uptight now that she wasn't sitting on it.

"Come on, Shells," Tom said easily, toeing the heel of his black work shoes until his feet slipped out. He hopped on one foot as he pulled on his worn-in Nikes. "You weren't going to let me into the change rooms after you'd fired me. Technically that would be breaking the rules, wouldn't it?"

"I don't know what you mean." She sneered back, tone sour. Clearly she was aware of the disgruntled audience in the background. It was true that nobody particularly like Tom, but everybody working nightshift did it because it was the only job available. Everybody needed their job, especially in this economy, and seeing a co-worker getting tossed out stoked the dormant fear of unemployment. "Don't put those filthy things on the table!"

Tom ignored her, slamming the shoes onto the table so hard that the dust and debris collected in the soles was knocked out. He tapped the shoes a few times to make sure they were good and clean before packing them away. "Look, you don't like me. That's cool. I'm not really fond of frigid bitches myself. No, really, you are. Don't even try and deny it. Anyway, the point is, you're petty, and you're going to use any possible excuse to screw me over before I leave. So this," he undid the cords of his trousers and let them drop around his ankles. "Is just me cutting out the middle man."

Tom stood straight, hands on hips, smiling benignly in all his half-naked glory. Somebody catcalled.

Shelley blushed fiercely. But she was undeterred.

"Even if you weren't staff, I would have let you in, Tom." Shelley responded, shaking her head helplessly. "I am not a monster. Despite your attitude, I have grown quite fond of you over the past few weeks. With some discipline you would have excelled at customer service, you have a personable persona that people seem to quite like…"

There was a pregnant pause.

"… Please put your pants back on."

Tom waited long enough for John Dowers, an elderly man in his late fifties, to snap a photo on his camera phone before finally conceding. First he struggled out of his slacks, and then into his jeans, having a fair amount of trouble getting the material over his shoed feet both times. It was around then that Tom realised he probably should have just left the damn shoes off from the start, to save him the effort.

He felt distinctly put out.

The rebellious, outspoken side of him refused to let that last.

"Thanks for the ringing endorsement, and everything." He said, casually flipping his laminated name tag in the air. The print 'Tom Harris, Here to Serve You' landed face up in his palm, and he eyed it for a moment before tossing it over to Shelley. She scrabbled to catch it, both hands pressing the pin-on card hard against her chest. "But I'd rather spend the rest of my life shovelling shit than working in this dump. I quit. Consider it an early birthday present, yeah? Forty this year, I heard."

And then he walked out.

Walked. Out.

It felt amazing.

"I'm thirty-four!" Came the outraged cry of a woman scorned. It was followed by furious sputtering. He was out the door when she hurled her last remark, trying to save face. "And you're fired!"

He didn't bother answering.

* * *

><p>Andrea was outside.<p>

Had Tom not been wired to notice her presence if it were nearby, he might have sailed right passed the girl. As it was, he was already slowing down before he even registered her petite form perched on one of the outdoor benches, legs crossed at the ankles and hands clasped in her lap.

Tom grinned. "Hey, you."

"Hey," she answered, straightening from her seat. She collected a large takeaway bag from the spot next to her before stepping forward. He could make out her features this close. "Me and the guys wanted to make sure you had something for dinner, before you left. And I wanted to say goodbye…"

"Oh," Tom articulated, unjustifiably touched by that admission. "I kind of wanted to say goodbye to you, too."

Andrea laughed. "Gary said you would. That's why he sent me out here."

Gary was head chef, if slapping together a burger with premade and pre-sliced ingredients could be considered cooking. He acted as shadow-manager, smoothing out the wrinkles Shelley made in the amiable atmosphere and keeping the morale running high. He had caught Tom about to spit in an unsavoury customer's Big Mac once. Tom sincerely hoped that Gary hadn't returned the favour here.

"That was nice of him," Tom managed finally, slightly suspicious.

"It was," Andrea agreed.

Tom shifted uncomfortably, realising that Andrea was waiting for him to say something. "So, uh… I guess this is it."

"Yeah," she moved even closer, piercing the bubble that was his personal space. He didn't really mind. "It sucks that you have to go."

"Mmmm," Tom hummed, lost for words. What else was there to say? He rubbed the back of his neck, brainstorming. "I am kind of bummed about it…"

Andrea smiled gently, pressing the warm paper bag into his hand and a large coke into the other. "If there is anything you need, call me, alright? I know how much you needed this job, Tom. I'm really sorry it had to end like this…"

She trailed off, ducking her head and sniffing. She took a few moments to compose herself before looking at him again, eyelashes suspiciously wet. "I mean it, okay? If you need anything, anything at all, just ask…"

Tom glanced down at the hand curling around his bicep, feeling hopeful. Without really thinking about it, he blurted out something that made them both freeze. Tom in horror, Andrea in – dear God, he didn't want to think about it.

"W-we could have sex."

Silence. The wind picked up around them, biting their cheeks and ruffling their hair. Tom half expected a ball of tumbleweed to roll on by.

Andrea suddenly reanimated, squeezed his arm comfortingly and then hugged him, pulling his head down into her chest. Tom rode a cloud of euphoria as he inhaled her vanilla-scented perfume and felt pure awesomeness against his face. "M-maybe some other time, Tom. I'll call you. What was your number again?"

"U-uh…" Tom said, swallowing loudly. "It is…"

And so he told her.

She wasn't going to call.

* * *

><p>Tom chained his bike to the gigantic billboard offering the latest fast food special which sat on the grassy knoll at the front of the car park.<p>

It certainly wasn't the best place to put it, but there weren't any bike racks nearby and it was in direct view of the restaurant. Nobody had tried to nick his bike yet, but then, Tom also went through the painstaking effort of removing the back wheel to dissuade any potential thieves from trying to make off with it.

"And I really don't know why I bother." He informed his beloved BMX as he set down his food and unlocked the first chain. He'd already collected the wheel from Gavin's boot, using the key in the magnetic box beneath the car. Gavin didn't care. He didn't seem to care about a lot, actually.

Tom thought the guy might be clinically depressed.

He unlocked the second chain and then started in on the third, which was the coded type with four separate dials to lock in the numbers. It was hard getting the combination right in the dark, and eventually he pulled out his aged NOKIA. Using the light from the screen, he finished up and then let himself topple backwards.

It was freezing.

Damp seeped into his jeans from the grass beneath him, and his hands began to seize from cold. He tucked them into the single pocket of his grey hoodie, which was sewn onto the front, and eyed the still separated bike with trepidation. It wouldn't take long to reattach everything – he'd done it plenty of times before. But riding home in this weather was not something he was looking forward to.

Reaching out, he picked up his drink and sipped. The straw was spat out of his mouth an instant later as Tom realised that the ice had already melted into the coke. It was watery and weak and not conducive to the weather, either. He tossed it away, uncaring, and began to push onto his feet.

"That's littering, you know."

Tom fell back on his arse with a grunt, surprised. "You like to state the obvious, don't you?"

Guerrero was collecting the strewn remains of the paper cup a few feet away, his voice the only thing identifying him in the darkness. "Only when it needs to be stated, kid. Haven't you heard of Greenpeace, Earth First? That little climate change issue everybody is so up in arms about?"

"One cup isn't going to bring on the apocalypse, mate." Tom countered, mildly petulant.

"That's what a lot of people think," Guerrero said, walking over to the roadside bin and tossing the rubbish in. "See the problem?"

"Yeah, yeah," Tom grumbled, finally finding his feet and wiping dirt-streaked palms on his clothes.

There was a derisive snort. "Sure you do."

"Of course I do," Tom sounded faintly snappish. He wandered over to his BMX, using his phone to guide him, and began reassembling it. It wasn't hard – the wheel latched in on the first go. "But I don't want to think about the greater good right now. I'm not in the mood. If you want a Care Bear, go find someone else."

Tom hauled his bike off the ground and kicked out the stand. He let it lean while he went to collect his gear.

"Better yet, leave the army. I'm pretty sure they're doing the most damage to the planet."

Guerrero watched calmly as Tom tried to stash his dinner into his duffel bag without squashing it, gradually getting more and more frustrated as the puzzle pieces refused to fit together. In the end, he shoved it in until he could safely close the zipper, and then he shoved it down even further out of spite.

"So, she cut you loose, then?"

Tom pulled the strap over his shoulder, straightened. "No, I'm the delivery boy."

"Do you want a lift home?" Guerrero asked.

That stopped Tom in his tracks. He turned to look at the silhouette, still a few metres away, his chin grazing the canvas of his shoulder strap. "You were out here waiting for me?" It wasn't really a question.

"Yes," was the unashamed answer, and really, why else would he be out here? Tom had seen the world weary glint in his eye, the rumpled fatigues and utter unpreparedness for a civilian situation. It was late, too late for the average person to be out and about, and this guy was such a stickler for following the rules. If he wasn't rising at six and in bed by nine, then something was probably wrong. Guerrero was off duty, either coming home from a nearby military base or the airport after a deployment.

Yet for some reason he was ignoring the screaming urge to hit the sack because of Tom.

"That's a little creepy," Tom said after a moment, though he wasn't incredibly alarmed by this newfound knowledge. Guerrero seemed like a straight shooter – one of those men who were so heterosexual that it made them walk funny. Not that he had seen the man walk. "And I don't swing that way."

"Kid, if I was batting for the other team," Guerrero began flatly, his voice inferring that he was _not, _in fact, batting for the other team_._. "I'd go for someone older, taller, and stronger. I don't like my toys breaking when I play with them."

Tom couldn't argue with that, but it lit the embers of unease in his stomach, paving the way for the excuse: "You scare me."

"I scare a lot of people, kid." Tom didn't doubt that at all. "So believe me when I tell you that being scared of me would actually make you more inclined to do what I say."

"If you think getting rid of the contractions in all of your sentences makes your argument any more legitimate," Tom announced, scowling. "You are wrong."

Guerrero wasn't fazed by the seemingly random logic. "But I _am _right."

Tom harrumphed. "Look, I appreciate it, but I can take myself home. I do it every night, and tonight isn't any different"

"I owe you a favour."

"That's your problem, not mine."

"It's cold."

"London generally is. Maybe you missed the memo."

"Your teeth are chattering." Guerrero stated, clearly having heard the tell-tale rattling.

Tom blanched. Not because Guerrero hearing him meant anything, but because Guerrero had spoken from somewhere far too close. Turning to investigate, he found that the soldier was almost standing right next to him, and for the life of him, Tom couldn't remember seeing nor hearing the man move.

"That," Tom said, thoroughly unnerved and stumbling over himself to step away. "Is really bloody freaky."

"Sorry," Guerrero grunted, sounding familiarly insincere. He did nothing to rectify the act that he knew required an apology.

"You've broken boundaries." Tom haughtily informed him, nose in the air. It was leaking profusely, snot streaming down his face. Sniffing did little to help.

It was going to be a painful ride home in this state.

"And you still won't let me take you home?" Guerrero said, amused.

"No," was Tom's curt reply.

Guerrero shrugged, then, recognizing that the battle was probably lost. He was normally a pretty gruff bloke, but the idea of letting the kid ride home in this weather and catch pneumonia didn't sit right.

"All right," the soldier relented, unhappy. "Just… don't die on the way home, okay?"

Tom paused on his way past the man. He glanced up at him, squinting to try and make out Guerrero through the dark. "You know, you're built like a tank, but underneath that questionable personality and bone breaking muscle – well. You're kind of a marshmallow. I never would have guessed."

"Keep walking," Guerrero said gruffly, glad that there wasn't anybody he knew nearby to hear that remark.

Tom laughed, genuine. "All right, all right, I get it. I'll see you around, maybe. Take care."

"Yeah, you too, kid."

And then Tom started walking again. Guerrero watched him go, hands in his pockets, eyes trained on the bike at the exact same moment that a car pulled into the parking lot, high beams on full. It lit up the night, and Guerrero saw something. He quickly started after the kid, an idea forming in his head.

"Hey," he called, hoping that the kid knew good intentions when he saw them. To be honest, if the roles were reversed, even he would have been a little concerned over his inability to leave Tom alone. "Is that broken?"

Tom, apparently, did know good intentions when he saw them. He stopped. "Is what broken?"

"This."

There was a snap. They both stiffened. In the receding light of the car, the damage was as blatant as a neon-coloured sign.

"Uh, shit," Guerrero managed after a moment, closing his fist around the reflector that he'd just broken off the bike. He slowly handed it back to the kid, wincing. "Sorry, mate. I didn't mean to do that."

Tom felt nothing but despair as he stared down at the small square of orange. "Well, it's broken _now_."

"Sorry," Guerrero repeated, then took a steadying breath before saying. "I… uh… it's dangerous to ride around in the dark without a reflector. Other vehicles won't be able to see you…"

"I know." The anger was beginning to surface now, rather potent as the injustice of the night's events finally started to catch up with him. Guerrero seemed to understand that, and ploughed on before Tom lost his marbles.

"It would be like suicide out on the road. I can, uh… If you want, I can still give you that lift. I'll pay to fix that, too." He said, and then reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He was going about this wrong. Why should this kid get in a car with him? He had every reason not to. "Fuck, I can call you a taxi, instead, if you're worried about-"

"I'm not worried about that," Tom interrupted sharply. "I've met enough bad people to know the difference. You're a nice guy, it's just…"

Minutes ticked by. There was silence.

"… A lift would be great," Tom eventually relented, seeing no other choice.

* * *

><p>Riding home in a car was, admittedly, awesome.<p>

Tom kept any and all noises of content to himself, though, until Guerrero flicked the heater onto its highest setting. Then he might have made a sound, but neither was willing to break the peace by mentioning it. In fact, they didn't mention anything. It was completely and utterly silent in the car.

And then Guerrero accelerated over a speed bump.

"Watch it!" Tom barked, craning his neck to see into the back. They'd lowered the backseats to fit his BMX into the boot, and even though it was safer than tying it onto the tailgate, he still worried for his baby. That bike meant a lot to him. Without it, Tom would be confined to public transport.

He hated public transport.

"If you're not going to be grateful, then be quiet."

"What the bloody hell do I have to be grateful for?" Tom whipped around in his chair, the seatbelt cutting into him reproachfully. The man glanced over, caught a glimpse of widened eyes and flaring nostrils, and promptly turned away. Teenage emotion was painful at the best of times, and now, for some ungodly reason, this teenager's emotions were directed at him. "You broke my bike!"

Ah, yes. That was why.

"Accident," Guerrero replied tartly, forcing a gear change that made the car judder. Tom, well-versed in the art of theatrics, sought the roof handle with an audible hiss. "And I already said I'd fix it."

"Look, Guerre-"

"Don't go butchering my name, kid." Guerrero snapped, annoyed. If he was being perfectly honest with himself, it was the less than stellar memories of angry training sergeants that made him detest the surname. "If you need to call me something, though I don't know why you would, but if you do, you can call me Lewis."

"Lew-is…" Tom tested out, curling his tongue around it experimentally. The harsh rebuke he'd been about to deliver was lost in the wake of this newfound information. Lewis rolled his eyes, sensing what was coming next. "So, Lew…"

"It's _Lewis_," the soldier corrected sharply.

"So," Tom repeated, unfazed. "_Lew_," the man's head snapped around, eyes narrowing dangerously. "_Is_," Tom tacked on quickly, willing those eyes back onto the street ahead of them.

"Yes?"

"What – hang on, take the next right. You missed the turn off. Yeah, that's the one. Then you take the third left." Tom waited until they were on a familiar stretch of road before continuing. "So, what is it that you do for the army, besides the frog marching and all that ceremonial stuff on TV?"

"It's classified." Lewis replied easily. He hadn't been able to tell anyone what it was that he did for over three years, now. The answer was practically second nature.

"Oh, come on." Tom wheedled, wrestling out of his shoes and wiggling his toes beneath the heater. "Who am I going to tell?"

"I'm sure you'd find someone," Lewis told him. He caught Tom leaning down to pull the level under his chair. "Don't lean back too far…"

There was a loud thump as the back of chair gave instantly, taking Tom with it. Lewis checked to make sure the kid hadn't injured himself, and found him staring up at the carpeted ceiling with a look of blatant awe. His car was old, probably too old, and Lewis tended to neglect any systems that didn't contribute to keeping it going. It wasn't really his fault. He didn't have time to take care of much else.

He was never home, after all.

"Now you've done it, kid."

Tom grinned. "That was awesome."

"I bet," Lewis grumbled, brow furrowing as the kid began to push the chair back and forth on its rollers. The repetitive noise was starting to grate, the movement on the edge of his vision distracting, and he ground his teeth, frustration growing. How old was this boy? Two? "Stop that."

"Why?"

"It's annoying."

"You know, that's kind of an incentive to keep going…"

Lewis gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles cracked. "I'll throw you out of the car, kid."

"I think we both know that's a lie, marshmallow." Tom countered, grinning.

Lewis said nothing, irritated. Instead, he consoled himself with the fact that it wouldn't be long until he'd delivered the kid home. They were turning down his street now. It would have taken well over twenty minutes to get there by bike, maybe more with this weather, and Tom would have resembled a Popsicle by the time he got there. So Lewis could put up with the annoying little brat for another minute or so, because if there was one code that he lived by, it was to never leave a man behind.

Even if the kid was proving he deserved it.

"Which house is it?" Lewis asked, feeling an inkling of suspicion stir in his gut. This didn't look like a particularly nice neighbourhood, but the houses appeared halfway decent in the glow of the streetlights. Hadn't the brat said something about not having an address? Did he even live here? Maybe he'd just meant that he'd lied on his application form. He probably still lived with his parents.

"It's, uh…" Tom undid his belt and sat up, peering out of the window to catch the numbers on the passing letterboxes. "Thirty-four, we're just about – yeah, this is it."

"Are you sure?" Lewis asked, because he really wasn't. There was no vehicle in the driveway, and the letterbox was overflowing with mail. The place looked completely empty, if Lewis was honest.

Tom refused to meet his questioning gaze, but he did sound reproachful. "I think I'd recognize my own house, Lewis."

"Are your parents vacationing, or something?"

"No, this is my uncle's place."

Lewis braked as they reached the end of the paved driveway and let the engine idle. They both listened to the mechanical purr for a moment, and then Tom began to shift, slowly reaching for the door handle when it became apparent that Lewis had nothing more to say.

Cool night air invaded the cosy atmosphere of the car as Tom stepped outside. He left the door open as he wandered around to the boot, knocking it with his fist until Lewis obligingly pressed the button. More cold as Tom pulled out his bike, and then his duffel, which he tossed carelessly over his shoulder.

Lewis watched him in the rear-view mirror, leaning over to open the glove box and pull out a cheque book. Behind him, Tom slammed the boot closed, then wheeled his bike up to the passenger door

He poked his head in. "Well, I guess I should say thanks for the lift…"

Lewis nodded in acknowledgement. He tore the top page off his book and folded it neatly in half. He handed it over. "This is for the bike. Take it, kid." Tom did, albeit hesitantly. "And you're welcome."

Tom looked like he was about to say something else, but decided against it. Shutting the door, he thumped the roof and continued up the three cracked steps onto the porch. Lewis stayed where he was until Tom had collected the house key from an overhanging plant, and then he started reversing back the way he'd come.

Tom yawned. He shoved the key in the lock, guided by the dying glare of the headlights, and opened the front door.

He hadn't lied about this being his uncle's house. It was just that his uncle didn't know he was here. He'd been deployed to Afghanistan a couple of months back, and Tom had taken advantage of his absence. His uncle wouldn't mind, anyway, as long as Tom cleaned up his messes and didn't break anything.

Letting the door swing shut behind him, Tom leaned his bike up against the wall and headed for the kitchen. He was planning to reheat his dinner, climb into bed and worry about his expanding list of problems tomorrow. But as he was setting his bag down on the floor, his curiosity got the better of him.

He unfolded the cheque, wanting to see how much Lewis had stooged him.

Tom froze.

_Barclay's Bank,  
>2311/2012_  
><em><strong><br>Branch:**_London

_**Pay To:**_ Tom Harris  
><em><strong>The Sum Of: <strong>_£3500

_**Authorized Signature: **_Alex Rider


End file.
